


You were behind my soul each time I held it to the flame

by StarberryCupcake



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: 17th Century, Alternate Universe - Royalty, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Minor Character Death, Romance, Royai - Freeform, Royai Week 2017, royai day, royai day 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 22:31:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11171424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarberryCupcake/pseuds/StarberryCupcake
Summary: "He knows that if things were any different, if she could sit beside him and not below him, if she could rule with him, the universe would be theirs."





	You were behind my soul each time I held it to the flame

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oretsev](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oretsev/gifts).



> Written for Royai Day for [Emily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oretsev/). I'm so glad I made it in time, I thought I wasn't going to. I really hope you like it ♥ The title comes from Emilie Autumn's "Ever", because I couldn't not reference Emilie Autumn's Enchant in a Royalty AU fic for Emily.

He walks down the aisle and brushes the tapestries with his fingers. He imagines setting them aflame just with his touch.

He remembers all those times when he was young, a small child already training to fit a crown that was too wide for his head, and how someone in his entourage would always chastise him for messing with the tapestries. There is some sort of small victory in knowing that, instead of growing up to follow their instructions, he grew up to defy them.

There was no entourage around him at all times anymore, both because he did not need it the same way and also because he had more enemies than friends, after all. The crown was not on his head but being fought for in a tug of war. An illegitimate son of the deceased King like himself had enough opposition against him.

Not necessarily for being illegitimate, though, that could be overlooked if he could play by the rules, if he did as he was told, if he was like those before him. But he is not the same as them. He is a child who likes to touch the tapestries everyone asks him not to mess with. He is a man who likes to rearrange power, ask questions and change things.

The war they sent him to, in the hopes of getting him vanished for good from the contest for the crown, showed him how rotten the world had got. It did not destroy him but sent him back branded with a desire to burn it all to the ground and make it anew from the ashes of the corrupt nobility. He is fire now: unstoppable, untamable, alone.  

But not completely so, in all honesty. He still has some people by his side. A small army, a few allies. And _her_.

He finds her waiting near the corner where the hallway meets another. Her armor is not on her anymore, as it was when he left her, but her sword is never away from her as her eyes are never away from him. The true reason for his lack of entourage is because with her, he does not need one.

There is so much he does not need as long as she is there, waiting at the turn of every corner.

“Are we staying then, Your Highness?” she asks as he walks past her.

She waits to follow, trailing behind him instead of pacing side by side. That distance becomes more unbearable for him with every passing day. The more his back becomes a target, the more he fears for her safety guarding it. And it hurts him to know there is little he can do to change things between them. Rearranging the entirety of the world seems easier than changing Dame Riza Hawkeye’s resolve. Her oath to protect him.

“That we are” he answers, trying not to sound as shaken as he truly feels, trying to ease her mind somewhat, and maybe also his own, after what they said to him “They want me to stay so I can, and I quote, ‘sleep on it’” he tries to laugh it off but it comes out shaken and exhausted “They seem to believe a proper night’s rest will sway me into considering their advice, as if I had ever in my life given the impression to be easily convinced when my mind is already set on something”

Dame Riza stays silent for a few long steps, and he can almost feel her thinking behind him, making the math in her head, planning how to word what she will say. He knows that she figured the reason for his unease before she opens her mouth to confirm it.

“Did they mention _him_?” is her question, hesitant, careful.

He feels her trailing closer. He stops. He does not turn to face her.

“The late Count was indeed mentioned” he feels his eyes heavy and his fists clench at his sides in an attempt to placate his ire “Of course, it is not as if Maes’s murder meant much to them in particular, but knowing how vocal the Count was in his intention to get me married, they see it as a clever leverage to pull to convince me of the same”

Dame Riza does not move. She stays at his back, out of sight, close but not enough, easily reachable but, at the same time, so far away.  

“The intentions are not the same, though, I gather” she offers, her voice more certain than his can be under the circumstances “He wanted you to be happy, to share his joy. They want to find you a wife that fits their political goals. Your happiness is the least of their concerns”

The Prince smirks and resumes his walking. She does the same, just a few steps behind. Always steps away.

“They all seemed very concerned for me, though” he continues “They mentioned how I seem to visit a brothel more often than not, how that gives me a terrible image, a bad reputation that could be settled with a good match” he cannot help laughing at that “as if the King who fathered me had not done so in that very same place, as if it had not been my home before I was useful enough for them to take me away and send me training”

 _‘As if the woman running it was not only my remaining family but also one of the most important informants in the Kingdom’_ stays unsaid between them, because not even empty hallways should hear some things said aloud.

“If it was not for your grandfather’s support and Lady Armstrong’s indifference, they would probably be able to push me into it” he declares, almost in a whisper.

“I see it as a good sign” she states and her confidence makes him halt.

This time he turns. This time he looks at her.

“You think I should marry?” he asks and hopes his voice does not sound as hurt and petty as he really feels.

She sighs, disappointed with his inability to keep up with her, and, to any other nobleman, it would be a clear sign of disrespect. To him, it is a gift. He cherishes it. He takes any indication of closeness between them he can get.

“It is a good hint that they are so insistent on the matter, Your Highness” she elaborates for him, not without a certain impatience but lacking any sort of bite or true anger “If I was sitting in the council and a bastard Prince was roaming around,” it would have been impertinence from everyone other than her to mention it like so, but to him it was proximity and honesty, it was _invaluable_ “I would not care at all who he married or if he even did it at all, as long as he imposed no threat to our order”

She takes a step towards him. It would only take another for them to be closer than they had ever been before. As close as he would want them to be.

“If they are retorting to marriage as a way to keep you somewhat tied to them, it is probably because they cannot do anything else against you” her voice is barely a whisper and speaking those words on vacant halls is like playing with fire.

He loves fire.

“Of course, I already knew that” he answers with a smirk and half a step. A tentative move.

She looks into his eyes and smiles and it reduces the entire world to just them. She is a Queen painted with the colors of war, hidden behind swords and shields, battles and scars. He knows that if things were any different, if she could sit beside him and not below him, if she could rule with him, the universe would be theirs. There is no other Queen he would rather have. No other smile he would rather see.

He turns and walks ahead, but waits for her to follow and slows his step accordingly. For a brief moment, they are side by side. The hallway is vacant, the palace seems deserted, she plays along.

“Did your grandfather speak to you about his suggestion?” he asks, an almost imperceptible hint of hope tainting his words “About you resigning your oath, taking your place among nobility as it was before you entered knighthood?”

She sighs again, but this time it is not out of impatience. He cannot place what kind of a sigh it is and it bothers him not to know.

“You are fully aware of the reason why I cannot do so” she answers, determined “I understand why he suggests it and I see why you bring it up now” she looks ahead but it feels as if she was staring at his very soul “I cannot protect you without a sword in my hand, without my eyes on your back…” she takes a tentative pause, but she speaks the words all the same “I cannot protect you with a crown on my head”

He knows it well, that it cannot be any other way. It does not hurt any less to hear it. He wishes he could give her feasts and jewels, dresses and wine, immaculate sheets and midnight embraces, but instead he gives her battles and scars, enemies and secrets, hesitation and war. But claiming it as his fault is taking away her resolve and her choice out of the equation, and he dare not judge her decisions or minimize her autonomy. Still, he wishes he could do more for her.

He feels the tentative caress of the back of her hand in his, a brush that is more determined than coincidence, a connection possible in the brief interlude while they walk side by side. It lingers on his skin, burning it alive, and it feels more intense than a kiss, more passionate than ecstasy, more intimate than any night they could steal or morning they could share.

He briefly interlaces their fingers and wishes they could stay like that forever. But she has a sword to hold, he has a world to burn, and they cannot do it while holding hands.  

When he lets her go and they resume their walking, her a few steps behind again, he closes his fist in the hopes of keeping her warmth within him, to ignite that fire he wants to burn the world with. He knows she sees it and hopes she understands. She surely knows. She always knows.

**Author's Note:**

> I had this idea for an AU for a while and this particular scene came to mind when thinking of what to write for Royai Day. I haven't written for this ship in LITERAL YEARS, so I hope my characterizations don't completely suck. I took my time to research how to properly address everyone in this but if you spot any mistakes, call me out on them. Olivier is a Marquise in my mind, in case you were wondering.


End file.
